Shannon (3 page)

The leader, eyes blazing and barely in control of himself, leaned in on Shannon.

“Fix him, Father.”

Shannon said, “Can you get— a doctor?”

The leader almost spat. “There's no doctor. Hear his confession, Father.”

“What's his name?”

“Eddie Dargan.”

Father Shannon moved in close to the wounded boy and squatted beside him. “Edward? How are you feeling?”

No answer. Shannon placed his fingers on the throat, as he had seen the medics do in France. Although he touched moist blood, he didn't tremble in lost control or whimper in fright— so far.

He was still short of breath from the forced march and the fear, as his fingertips traveled gently here and there. But not much pulse fluttered in the soft neck. He took the boy's hands— filthy hands, earth caked under the fingernails— and the wrists gave nothing back. Suddenly they all started in shock as the boy took three or four wheezing breaths.

“Go on. Hear his confession, he's a soldier,” said the leader. “We'll go out.”

Father Shannon said, “I c-c-can't … hear his confession. I have no permissions in Ireland, I'm not here— I mean, I'm not here as a priest.”

He gestured for some light and the men stepped aside. When one held up the ivy flap, Shannon prized open the boy's eyes: They had no focus. Shannon looked up at the standing gunmen.

“Water?”

Each of the younger ones looked at the other, desperate to help, desperate also to be anywhere else. Together they rushed away. Shannon returned to the wounded, sweating boy and held his hand.

“Edward, try to breathe. Just a— a little deeper. Like this.” And Shannon, for example's sake, took four, five, six deep breaths.

Beyond a faint half gasp there was no response.

The two young gunmen came back, both carrying water; one had a mug, the second had found an old bucket. Shannon reached into his rucksack, pulled out one of his spare shirts, and dipped a sleeve in the water. He dabbed the boy's dry lips. No tongue emerged, so he began to clean the boy's face. And now, to his shame, he could not stop his own hands from trembling.

Nor could he prevent his recoil when he wiped away the blood at the hairline and saw the size of the wound.
What massive bullet did this? What kind of monstrous war is this? Isn't the Irish war over?

After the havoc and horror of France, he had hoped never again to witness such a violation of the human body. As the cool water touched his hand the dreadful word, the dreadful place-name, hurtled into his mind like a curse:
Belle Eau. It means
beautiful water,
they'd said. That was before its crystal springs had turned crimson with blood. Our blood.

He dabbed again and, trying to stabilize his feelings, brought himself to remove all the caked blood from the boy's face. Using the shirttail, he now began to wash the boy's hands.

“Anoint him, Father,” bullied the leader.

“I—um, I have—”

“I said, anoint him! He's a patriot.”

“I have— no holy oils.”

The youngest gunman began to cry, and in his tears he shouted, “What?” It was almost a wail. Shannon stood up and turned around to comfort him, but the young gunman stabbed his gun into Shannon's chest. He pushed the muzzle hard, forcing the priest backward into a stumble. “Don't anoint him, Father. Jesus! That's for dying people!”

Shannon regained his balance and stood still. The boy tapped him hard on the chest with the gun barrel.

“He's all right, Father, isn't he?” By now he was shouting. “Jesus! Jesus! He's all right, isn't he?”

“Come on, Mikey come on,” said the leader. The third man reached in and led Mikey by the arm out of the shed.

“He's Eddie's brother,” said the leader, close to contempt, and Shannon squatted again to finish washing the wounded Edward's hands.

For three hours, three dim aching hours of that morning, Shannon crouched as the gunmen stood and prowled around the lean-to. For three hours they sighed, coughed, murmured a word or two, sighed again, coughed some more. Sometimes all three went out together; sometimes one or two went out. They never put down their guns; they trudged over and over through the long grass of the old kitchen garden and the ranks of old fruit trees in the ancient orchard to some vantage point, where they stood and gazed all around the wide countryside. Then they came back again and sat, stood and prowled, sighed and coughed gently, murmured a word or two, and sighed again.

By midmorning Shannon could scarcely stand upright, so cramped had he become from his hours of crouching. Gently he relinquished the wounded boy's hands and rose to his feet, easing his limbs. But suddenly the boy twitched in a small convulsion of legs and feet. Shannon dropped to a crouch again and took Edward's hands once more.

A memory of his training came hurtling back. “Forgive the dying through the five senses,” droned the seminarian. “First anoint the eyes for seeing, then the ears for hearing, then the nostrils for the sense of smell, then the lips for taste, then the hands for touch, and at last commend the dying soul to his God and his Savior with the oil of chrism in a cross on his forehead.”

Before he went to France with the marines, Shannon had asked the awful question: If there are casualties, and men are gravely wounded, what if the places to dab the holy oils no longer exist? What if there are no hands to anoint, no feet? What are a battlefield's last rites if a body has lost its anointing points?

Now, stimulated by the memory, he reached inward again, to the places in his spirit where his resources used to be, to the terrain he had so often found bleak since his breakdown, to find the heart that made him want to give this boy ease and love, to look for the soul that had once made him desperate to guide the less fortunate and care for the afflicted. But once more he found nothing, nothing but a blank and awful space. Where Mass had been, where the sacraments had flourished, where God had reigned, there was no life.

He reached farther, or tried to: Past this void, he found again a practical side of his mind, where the seminary came to his aid. At least he remembered the cadences of prayers, even if he couldn't taste their mysteries.

Shannon bent low to the sprawled boy soldier and began to whisper in his ear, from which blood still oozed like dark red oil.

“Edward. If you can
think
these words with me, there's no need to say them. Let your mind repeat them.” He spoke the Contrition: “O my God. I, Edward Dargan, Thy humble servant. Am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. And I detest all my sins. Because they offend Thee, Who in Thy infinite goodness. Are deserving of all my love. And I resolve most sincerely. With the help of Thy divine grace. To do penance. To amend my life. And to try never to sin again.”

By now the boy had died. No huge sad sigh came forth, no death rattle, no convulsing spasm, just a slipping away and the beginnings of a slight rigor. But Shannon knew that Eddie had died, because he had seen it all before, so many times, in Deaths many foul methods. Even before the war, in parish work, giving Last Rites, he'd often seethed, when it was too late, at the vile invader.

He placed his fingers on Edward Dargan's eyes, on his nostrils, on his lips for taste, on his ears for the gift of sound, and at last, for touch, on the fingertips. Then he stood up and stood back, his hands clasped before him, his body numb.

“Will we bury him here or what?” said the leader.

“That—um, that wouldn't be … a Christian burial.”

“He won't get that,” said the leader.

The priest looked shocked. “Isn't he a Catholic?”

“Yeh. But they're excommunicating us. We're on the wrong side. That's what we get for being patriots, Father.” He swore, the words coarse and cold, stepped to the opening of the shed, and said something. From outside came the shouting of the dead boy's brother. The leader turned back to Shannon and placed his gun at the priest's ear, fitting the small round hole of the muzzle into the ear's curl. He held it there, trying to work it in ever closer. Next, Shannon heard the deadly metal chuckle of the bolt. The muzzle pressed tighter into his ear. He waited.

“What did I say?” the leader said, his tone as dull as the gunmetal.

Shannon closed his eyes. “You said, Tell nobody.”

The gunbolt clanked again, and the leader took the rifle away. Within seconds the trio had disappeared.

To his shame, Shannon found himself unable to stay inside the shed.

He dropped to one knee, closed his eyes, and in an automaton's voice whispered the brief prayer that he had composed for the wheat fields of Normandy: “O Lord. Welcome with open arms. The soul of Thy dead servant Edward. And in the mercy. Of Thy infinite heart. Grant him. Once again. The innocence with which he came into the world.”

With his thumb, Shannon made a cross on the dead forehead of Eddie Dargan, stood up, and gave him the only blessing he knew, a farewell Sign of the Cross. Then he grabbed his rucksack and his wet, muddy, bloodstained blue shirt and once more broached the day.

Outside he found nothing but the sky and the trees and the old brick walls and the long grass at his feet. No birds sang. He touched his own eyes, his tongue, his ears, his nose. This was not ritual but response, not deliberate but instinctive.

H
is steps retraced, and driven by the energy of near panic, Shannon found the great beech tree again; his anguished mind had long been learning to look for landmarks. He stood in the road, glad of the firmer surface, and looked down at the water. The wide comfort of the river didn't rescue the moment; an attack of memory swept in, and he closed his eyes to shut out the bloody images. But he lost the tussle and he sat down on the empty roadway, no wider in those days than a farm lane. With his hands pressing solace to his face, he waited for the tremors to pass.

After many minutes, he rose to his feet. His eyes burned red, his rucksack felt heavier, he ached with sudden hunger. Putting one foot in front of the other, then building a stride, he resumed his direction. The sun had climbed up into its daily round.

Ahead, on his right, some thirty yards back from the roadway, stood a long, low, simple house, decent and quiet. As Shannon walked by, the front door opened and a woman of about his own age let out a dog, who barked and rushed toward him. Shannon recoiled.

The woman called out, “You're all right, ‘tis only Shep.”

Shep, a sand-colored mutt, stopped in front of Shannon and frisked.

He wagged his tail, barked, and barked— no more than showing off. The woman whistled on her fingers, and as the dog raced to her she beckoned. Shannon turned from the road and walked up to the door. She eyed him: the shoes, the pants, the gray windcheater.

“Come on in.” She ignored the stranger's pallor, his silence.

The house had no hallway. Woman, dog, and priest stood in the dim kitchen with its floor of broad gray stone flags. In the hearth under a high mantelpiece a fire burned, and its light flickered upon a table prepared for two. The house's small windows rendered the room's interior as dim as a painting.

“I was just making porridge. Did you know that Jesse James— or his father— was from back the road there?”

Shannon had no breath in his lungs. She answered for him and pulled forward a chair.

“Ah, yeh. Sure, everybody here believes it. Especially in Asdee, where he's supposed to come from. They make up songs about him back there. By the way, I'm Molly. All the Yanks come here asking about Jesse James.”

Her name was Molly O'Sullivan, thirty-five years old, tall, and childless. Her husband, Joe, owned this smallholding, which yielded eggs from a clutch of hens, milk from a cow, and mischief from a goat. An acre of potatoes, the rice of Ireland, gave them bedrock food through the year. For money, Joe earned a seasonal wage with farmers, and Molly laundered now and then, here and there.

“Pity, now, my sister isn't here—Lal—she's very nice. You'll have to meet her. She's in the convent.”

Molly bustled and talked, talked and bustled. A small gap separated her two front teeth. High cheekbones under dark hair rendered her almost Asian. Directed by her, Shannon lowered himself onto a chair by the fire. He settled and raised his head. From across the room a white-haired handsome man in scarlet robes looked steadily at him from an old newspaper print.

“He's a dead pope,” Molly said, tracking Shannon's glance. Into the pan of oatmeal she dropped salt from a bag made of stiff blue paper. “We've a bad crack in the wall there, so we had to hang up Pius the Tenth.”

“Giuseppe Sarto,” intoned a voice. “Pope from nineteen-oh-three to nineteen fourteen. A decent man, by all accounts.”

Shannon turned toward the words in the air. A door had opened into the kitchen, and Joe O'Sullivan now walked through, spare and beetle-browed. His hobnailed boots clanked on the stone flags.

“We've a Yank here.” Molly jerked a head at the visitor. “Look at his lovely clothes. I was telling him about Jesse James.”

“Wasn't he shot in the back?” said Joe, who walked to the table, shook hands with Shannon, and sat down. “I see you brought the fine weather across the ocean with you.”